The Boy Who Was
by quintessential-dreamer
Summary: This is a little sweet, a little sad - like all love stories are. "I know a boy with hazel eyes and dark hair, and a perpetual smile. The boy is kind; too kind. The boy is sweet, always so sweet, and I like him very much."


I know a boy with hazel eyes and dark hair, and a perpetual smile. He laughs freely, jokes often, is confident and cheerful. He can sing well, too. The boy is kind; too kind. He cares, and he listens, and he helps. The boy is sweet, always so sweet, and I like him very much.

I know a boy with beautiful eyes. They are green – no not green. They are orange – but not quite either. They are golden, and shift colour underneath the light. They sparkle and glow, and it makes me feel oh so very special when he stares at me. He has lovely hair, too. It is lush and black and falls in unruly curls over his forehead. Sometimes I reach out, wanting to brush my fingers through it, simply longing to find out if it feels as nice as it looks. When the boy sings, I feel like I'm on the moon. Is that cheesy? Clichéd? When he sings, I can close my eyes and let myself drift away with the deep, rich notes. If I were to compare it to something, his voice would be dark molten chocolate. Sometimes the boy holds my hand, sometimes he pulls me in for a hug. It feels good.

I know a boy whose eyes can speak volumes. When he looks at me, I feel vulnerable, exposed. He can see through to my very soul. No, not vulnerable. It comes as a sort of relief, that I no longer need to hide; he can see right through me. He understands. But his eyes can also hold pain, I realize. Sometimes I see the sadness in them and I want to pull him close and whisper that it will all be okay. But I know to leave him be, until he comes to me. When his arms are around me, I feel safe. I feel warm and protected. I think I could melt into his arms and hold on forever.

I know a boy who knows me better than I do myself. Sometimes I think I understand him better than he does himself, too. When he kisses me, it feels right.

I know a boy who likes to hold my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine. He holds on, tight.

I know a boy who listens. I go to him when I am sad, when I am happy, when I need help. And he will watch silently but attentively as I talk, and sometimes he will kiss the top of my head and tell me it'll be okay. That always makes me feel better. Or maybe he will just listen, and let me figure things out. He always understands, and he never passes judgment. Sometimes, we just sit next to each other, enjoying each other's company. It is quiet, the only sounds our breaths. We hold hands, sit close, trying to capture in our memories every single moment spent together. When we lie in bed at night, I stay awake and gaze at his face. It is so peaceful in sleep. His beauty is almost ethereal, and sometimes I feel light-headed with the knowledge that he is mine. I always stare at his eyelashes. They are impossibly long, brushing the tops of his cheeks, so elegant and delicate; long like a giraffe's. But that sounds so unromantic. They are as long as… time? But that doesn't make sense. I can't put a price on the boy, on every little bit of him. He comes as a whole, and I am very lucky to have him.

Or course, there are bumps. No one is perfect. But he is close. _We _are close. We smooth the bumps over.

I know a boy who hides behind a façade, and when he creeps out from behind it, it is raw and terrible and wonderful. I can right him, I know how to heal his wounds. But sometimes I leave that to him; he is so brave, so strong. When I hug the boy, my arms now reach right around him, his narrow shoulders fitting into my embrace. He is so small, and it is as if our roles are inversed; I have become the protector.

I know a boy who will never quail in the face of adversity. But when adversity comes knocking, maybe that is just wishful thinking. I find it hard to keep going, myself. It is so hard, so very hard. There is pain, there is worry. There are countless somber conversations in the dark, when even the touch of his fingertips against mine cannot take away the fear. There are fights. There are tears. And there are bottles and bottles of pills and strange, plastic faces saying things like _we don't understand_ and _might be too late_ and worse of all _I'm sorry_. At times I think of the faces and I want to scream to them, _you're not sorry, if you really were you would do something. _But I keep my calm and stay quiet and always say _thank you_. The boy never says much, only smiles thinly and grasps my hand tight.

I have to stay strong for the boy, and so I do. I sing for him, and I hold him, and I smile and smile and smile and pretend it will be okay. In turn he laughs that dark chocolate laugh, and he talks like nothing has changed. I marvel at his strength.

Occasionally, I wonder what life would have been like without the boy. Without the boy, there wouldn't be this much suffering, there wouldn't be an ache in my chest every time I wake up in the morning. But without the boy, there would have never been happiness.

When we near the end, the boy is so very thin. He is feather light in my arms. His grip on my hand is weaker, so I clench back extra hard to make up for the both of us. When we near the end, it is suddenly hard to breathe, hard to wake up every morning, hard to do anything. He is still brave, so now he holds me, and he sings. His voice is hoarse, but I still hear the lilting tones from before, and when I shut my eyes and cry quietly into his shoulder he rubs his hands up and down my back whispering _it's okay it's okay it's okay _a billion times.

But it won't be, not for me.

When it is near the end, we are both scared. There is nothing left to say, so we lie next to each other in silence and think about the past. I think about the kisses, and the hugs, and the handholding. I wonder what it will be like without those. But mostly, I think about the boy.

It is very quiet, very still.

I whisper _I love you_, and he hums back _I love you too._

I do not cry. Instead, I lie awake and imagine him beside me. I think about the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his smile, the feel of his lips on mine.

I knew a boy who was perfect, and I know a boy I will love forever.


End file.
